Angel
by Lou-deadfroggy
Summary: Saruman created a myth, a story about angels, for a sleepless elfling. As his mind grows dark even her halo cannot save him.
1. Prologue

**Angel**

**Prologue**

… …

… …

"Father? Elrond has asked me to attend a council in Imladris. I did tell you, I have to leave now." She came in, dressed in green and brown to hide in the wild. I gave her a smile, a real one that surprised her.

"Will your uncles be there?" I asked her. Of course Glorfindel and Erestor would be in Rivendell, I was just making one last conversation.

"Unless Elrond has them running errands. I think something important is going to happen soon. Something better happen or else we are going to lose Gondor." I almost laughed at the bitter irony, she was worried about Gondor. I nodded, looking thoughtful.

"I suppose representatives from Lórien and Mirkwood will be there," I said. She shrugged.

"The mountains are getting dangerous; Lórien is almost sealed up now." That told me all I needed to know, she was still not on speaking terms with Legolas.

"Did we have a visitor?" she asked suddenly. I hesitated. Yes, we had had a visitor, we still did. Locked up at the top of Orthanc, still unconscious, was Gandalf. I was not, however, going to tell her this.

"Briefly, they are gone now." She nodded. I had covered the tracks well; Gandalf's horse had gone, as had any traces of our little disagreement. It had been closely cut; she had been in the forest for most of that day.

"_Navaer_ Father, farewell. I will be back with any news." She still had no idea, no clue as to what was going on. Her face, unmarked by everything that had happened to her, was impossible to read. She smiled but it was just a movement, as all her smiles were now. Her eyes had grown hard; they no longer laughed or went wide at simple things. They no longer cried either, not since _Laps__ë_. Her sword hung at her side, it had seen too much use. She was too good at wielding it: she had had too much practise. That worried me slightly; maybe her skills would stand in the way of my plans. I regretted giving the order now; I wished that I could change my mind.

"There is a rumour," she said quietly. I watched as she ran a finger along the bookshelf, pausing at the one she wanted. "That something has been found." She took out the book but I could not see what it was. Surely, she could not know what Gandalf had said to me?

"Found what child?" I would miss calling her that, even though she was no longer a child.

"Just a rumour, no-one listens to rumours anymore." Her voice went higher as she turned and placed the book on the desk, keeping the title hidden. She bent down and kissed my cheek in farewell.

"_Navaer_ Father," she said as she opened the door.

"Good-bye child, stay safe," I called after her. Faintly I heard her laugh, dry and humourless. For a moment I wanted to go after her, to tell her not to take the pass that led to the gap of Rohan, not to trust the Dunlendings. I wanted to tell her that she would not get to Rivendell, that there was someone waiting for her on the road to Imladris. I wanted to say I was sorry.

Sorry. I had never been sorry for anything but as I hurried to the window and looked down at the horse and rider leaving the ring of Isengard, I was sorry. I was sorry that I had failed her. Suddenly I saw myself as what I had become, worse than Gandalf. I had not sent her from her home; I had sent her to her death.

"Forgive me, let her live," I whispered. I turned as I felt eyes on me. Colmith was standing in the doorway, staring at me with a mixture of hate and pity in her eyes.

"Please Colmith." She shook her head, glaring at me. Then she was gone, leaving only the echo of a child's voice behind.

"Tell me a story Father, about the angels." There are no more angels child. I made them up one night in Lindon, to get an elfling to sleep. The last angel is about to fall, her own Father gave the order for her to die. There are no angels.


	2. To Tell A Story Of Angels

**To Tell A Story Of Angels**

… …

It took me a while before I remembered the book she had left on my desk. She had long since disappeared over the horizon. Maybe if I had been an elf I could have watched for longer. I turned back to my desk and absently picked up the book. I don't know what I was expecting; a book on ring lore perhaps, to show that she knew something of my plans. The book was blank, there was no title. I stared at it, confused. Why had she picked out a blank book? I went to the bookcase, thinking that she had picked up the wrong one. The only gap was between a series of newer books I recognised. About a century ago, she took to writing everything down, all of the stories. She wrote down what happened in Gondolin, Glorfindel's story and Erestor's, in one book; her mother's story in another. I know she kept some letters from Rúmil and Arwen, writing their story. There were several books, all with the same binding, in a row. I wondered why I had never noticed them before. She must have moved them from the main library only a day or so ago. One by one I picked them out, piling them up on my desk. I skimmed over the titles, etched onto the dark blue bindings. I open one at random, and stare at her handwriting. She wrote them all in Quenya, the language I helped her learn. Neat rows of painstakingly drawn runes, the borders beautifully filled with calligraphy, covered each page. A dragon, painted at the bottom of the page, reared its head at the letters. Opposite was a full page devoted to a painting of the fall of Gondolin. I had never taken the time to read her books; there was some half a dozen of them. One for her uncles, one for her mother, one for Thranduil, one for her siblings; there seemed so much that had happened. I looked for her own story, but there was none. I wondered why. Again I picked up the blank book, opening it at the first page. There, in the same script, was a single line.

_Tell me a story Father, about the angels._

I stared at the page for a while. Then I realised what she wanted me to do. Maybe she knew that she was not coming back, that her story would never be told unless I told it now. How could she know, and still ride off into danger? She would not do that, she was not a fool. Then there must be another reason why she asked me to write a story.

"Something is stirring, the trees can feel it," her words came back to me. She had known something was amiss that day, when she came back from the forest although she never said as much. Only hours after I had locked Gandalf away, she had come to me and said that the forest was uneasy.

"Some evil is near, not Sauron but something else. Colmith is off; she has not said a word. It must be strange, seeing the world from only one person's point of view." I had laughed, she often said things like that, not quite complaining but just letting me know that things troubled her. That was what she wanted: my point of view, my side of the tale. I took a quill from the pot, recalling Quenya runes from my memory. I could not match her paintings but I taught her calligraphy. I began to write, starting when I first met her. She wanted a story of Angels, so I would write the story of an angel: her.

I had known Gandalf in Aman and I met Isowen when we first came to Imladris, so it seemed natural, as one of their close friends, that I would be present at the naming of their children. First, came Gandir, a lively little boy, although that ceremony was slightly overshadowed by Isowen's brother, Glorfindel, being 'ill'. Elves seem to get sick from heartache quite frequently. Then Alsea, a few years later. Finally I got a message saying that the third addition was about to arrive. I must confess I was not particularly excited or concerned about being in time. As it was I got to Mithlond a day before the naming ceremony. I was shown the baby, a small dark-haired bundle that resembled Isowen in every way. For once the remarks that she looked like her mother were eerily accurate.

… …

_Early spring, Mithlond, Lindon,_

I dismounted in the courtyard outside Isowen's house. I always wondered what the Elves did for the many years they inhabited _Arda_, they always seemed to be around but never free to lend a useful hand. As usual the house was full of them. Elrond and Celebrían had come from Imladris along with Glorfindel and Erestor. Galdur was there, giving off a sense of awkwardness. Maybe you will know why he was there; I never took the time to find out. It also seemed that everyone who had ever known your parents was lined up in the main square the next day. Strangely enough, the Lady Galadriel was there as well. Needless to say I avoided her. You had a nice ceremony child, I suppose no different to most but quaint all the same. Afterwards, you were handed around and I got my first proper look at you. You were not an exceptional infant, small and chubby as all new-borns are. I looked at you, remarked on your likeness to Isowen as was expected, then passed you to the next elf in line. I never expected you to have anything to do with me; I did not bother myself much with you. Your parents were pleased, your uncles happy and your siblings bored. That was how we all expected it to be for the next several millennia.

… …

I looked at what I had written and realised that, unconsciously, I had written exactly as if I had been speaking to her. As if it was a letter she would one day read. I sighed, within hours she would be dead. I regretted sending the order; I wanted to take it back. The feeling was alien to me; I turned it over in my mind curiously. I thought of Glorfindel, of the hours he had spent training her; of Legolas and the years they had been fighting side by side. I remembered that she had been at several battles during the kin-strife, had spent so long defending Mirkwood. She had ridden beside the sons of Elrond and Glorfindel against the Witch-King at Fornost, had fought at the siege of Dol Guldur and alongside Eorl the Young not that long ago. A flicker that was not quite hope made me smile. There was a possibility, however slim, that she might fend off those I sent to wait for her. She may make it to Imladris, alive, and one day read what I have written. I began to plan for this eventuality. Of course, if she did survive then she would no doubt go to war against Sauron. The likelihood of her living through the Elves' defeat was next to none. She, along with Legolas and the others, would make some sort of heroic suicidal last stand.

Aman was not so bad, she would like it there. I did not want her to die, I merely wanted to save her the pain of watching her friends be killed and the Middle-Earth she loves fall to her enemy. She would not spend long in Mandos; she was young and had not done anything truly horrific. I did not believe that she was guilty of that _elleth_'s murder. One day she would see her friends again, those who were captured and made to remain in Middle-Earth would be fond memories. That was what I wanted for her, not to be caught up in a war. That was why I sent the order, to give her peace. Now if she did survive, she would fight and suffer. I would have to wait for the council to decide where she would go. If I could not send her to Aman, I could make her sail or at least keep her in Orthanc, safe. My thoughts went to Gandalf, locked high above me. He had sent her away, carelessly given her to a passing friend. I stood, ready to take on the changes needed to serve Mordor and be on the victorious side.

… … … … … … …

**I'm trying to prove that Saruman was slightly deranged but not really evil. This references my other two fanfics but you don't need to have read them to understand this one. Probably no updates for a while, the other two need to catch up a bit first seeing as this is during the Fellowship and on one I'm still in the second age! Thanks to Pagan Twilight for the review. Constructive criticism is always welcome.**


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